Chapter 3: La Routine du Matin
The first week passed in a haze of routine and revelation. Hugo’s world had narrowed to the confines of their shared room, its atmosphere now permanently layered with the essence of Dylan. It was a potent brew of liniment, leather from his rugby bag, dried sweat, and the distinct, salty-sour scent of spent semen that seemed to cling to everything Dylan touched.
Dylan was, against all of Hugo’s initial apprehensions, relentlessly kind. A gentle giant, albeit one with a filthy mouth. He’d throw an arm around Hugo’s narrow shoulders, call him “frèrot” or “mon pote,” and ask about his courses with genuine, if clumsy, interest. He shared his protein bars, insisted Hugo needed “plus de masse,” and filled the silences with a constant, low-volume commentary on his life.
His favourite subject was himself. Specifically, his sexual exploits.
“Alors, la meuf de mercredi, putain,” he’d begin, towelling his hair after a shower, a damp towel slung low on his hips. Hugo would keep his eyes on his textbook, his skin prickling. “Une brune, des seins comme ça. J’l’ai baisée sur le capot de sa bagnole. Elle hurlait tellement que les flics ont failli venir.”
Hugo would make a noncommittal sound, his pencil trembling slightly over an equation.
“Le truc, mon gars,” Dylan continued, dropping the towel and padding, naked and magnificent, to his dresser, “c’est l’endurance. Moi, une heure, c’est l’échauffement. Elles aiment ça, le coup de bélier. Jackhammer, comme ils disent. En missionnaire, bien profond, à leur défoncer le cul.” He’d chuckle, pulling on a pair of boxers that were, Hugo now knew, probably unwashed from the day before. “Faut qu’elles sentent qu’y a un homme sur elles. Qu’elles étouffent un peu.”
Every night, the ritual. The lights out, the rhythmic creak of the bed, the grunts and filthy encouragements Dylan whispered to himself. “Ouais, prends-la, salope… ouvre-toi… tu l’aimes, ma grosse bite?” Hugo would lie frozen, listening, his own body betraying him with a wet, aching heat that mirrored the sounds from across the room. The climax was always a raw, guttural event, followed by Dylan’s contented sigh and the sticky sound of him wiping his seed onto his sheets. He never used a tissue twice.
By morning, the room would smell of sex and sleeping male. Hugo would wake to the sight of Dylan already stirring, his massive frame shifting under the thin sheet. The dawn light would catch the outline of his erection, a thick, obscene tent in his boxers, often darkened at the tip with a smear of pre-cum from the night’s release.
One such morning, a week in, Dylan let out a deep groan as he stretched. His hands went to his waistband, and he shoved the fabric down in one crude motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, a thick, veined pillar of flesh that slapped audibly against his lower abdomen. It was huge, uncut, the head a ruddy purple emerging from its hood, a bead of moisture glistening at the slit. His balls were a heavy, tight sack nestled in a dense thatch of dark hair.
“Regarde ça, mon pote,” Dylan rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep. He didn’t even look at Hugo, just stared down at his own equipment with proprietary pride. “Il est déjà réveillé, lui. Toujours le premier debout.” He gave the shaft a lazy, familiar stroke, smearing the pre-cum down its length. “Faudrait qu’une bonne bouche s’en occupe.”
Hugo’s breath hitched. He was supposed to look away, to be embarrassed. Instead, his gaze was locked, his mouth watering. The sheer scale of it was terrifying, mesmerizing. It was a brutal, animal thing, and it made the hidden part of Hugo clench with desperate longing.
Dylan finally glanced over, catching Hugo’s stare. He didn’t get angry or mock him. He just grinned, a slow, knowing curl of his lips under the mustache. “Impressionnant, hein? Vingt-quatre centimètres de pur putain de problème.” He gave it another possessive tug before letting it go. It bobbed against his stomach, a relentless, living presence. “Bon. Allez, debout. Training à neuf heures.”
He swung his legs out of bed, his erection still jutting proudly, and trudged to the bathroom. The shower started. Hugo lay there, the image seared into his mind. The room was quiet now, save for the water. The smell was strongest near Dylan’s discarded bedclothes.
An impulse, sharp and undeniable, clawed at Hugo. He slid out of his own bed, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He crossed the few feet to Dylan’s side. The sheets were a tangled mess. On the floor, where Dylan had stepped out of them, lay a pair of grey cotton boxers, inside-out, the fabric stained with dried, milky streaks.
Hugo knelt. The scent here was overpowering—musky groin, stale sweat, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of semen. He picked up the boxers. The fabric was stiff in places. His hands were trembling. He brought the stained crotch to his face and inhaled, a long, deep pull that flooded his senses with Dylan.
A low moan escaped him. He was painfully hard himself, a different, softer ache. He fumbled with his own pajama pants, pushing them down. With one hand, he pressed the filthy cotton against his nose and mouth, breathing in the essence of the rugby player’s release. With the other, he touched himself, his fingers sliding through the wetness that had gathered between his legs, a slick, shameful proof of his need.
His movements were frantic, inelegant. He pictured Dylan’s cock, the way it had looked moments before. He imagined the weight of it on his tongue, the taste of the pre-cum he’d seen. The fantasy was violent, perfect: Dylan fucking his face, using his throat, calling him names.
He came quickly, silently, shuddering over Dylan’s floor, his own release adding a new, faint smell to the room’s tapestry. He stayed on his knees for a moment, panting, the stained boxers still clutched in his hand. Then, moving on an instinct darker than shame, he brought the fabric to his lips. He found a stiff, crusted patch with the tip of his tongue. The taste was bitter, saline, profoundly intimate. He licked it, cleaning the dried residue with a slow, deliberate pass of his tongue, a secret communion.
The shower shut off. Hugo scrambled, shoving the boxers back where he found them and retreating to his own bed just as the bathroom door opened.
Steam billowed out, followed by Dylan, a towel around his waist, his skin glistening, his cock now soft and heavy between his legs. He sniffed the air as he walked to his closet, a curious frown on his face. His eyes flicked to Hugo, who was pretending to be engrossed in his phone.
“T’as fait du sport, frèrot?” Dylan asked, a slow, teasing edge in his voice. “L’air est un peu… chaud.”
Hugo just shook his head, unable to speak.
Dylan chuckled, dropping his towel. He dressed in clean training gear, his movements efficient. “Bon, j’y vais. Fais pas de conneries.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and paused at the door. He looked back at Hugo, his expression unreadable for a moment. “À ce soir.”
The door clicked shut. The room was suddenly, unbearably empty. Hugo stared at the spot on the floor where the grey boxers lay. The taste of Dylan was still on his tongue. The ache between his legs was gone, replaced by a hollow, yearning hunger. It wasn’t satisfaction. It was the first, unmistakable pang of addiction. He knew, with a certainty that both terrified and electrified him, that the boxers, the stories, the distant sounds in the dark, would never be enough again. He needed to get closer to the source. He needed to taste it fresh.
For next chapter: Hugo turns even more addicted to pure sex than Dylan. Dylan is amused and impressed by Hugo’s hunger, how hard and sloppy he sucks his cock, saying that tomorrow he has a training so he has to rest but Hugo becomes addicted to that cock and sucks non stop creampies after creampies. Dylan says he had to rest but he can’t stop Hugo and says he is doing crazy things with his lips. Dylan finally accepts to be Hugo’s sextoy that night, and says he can do whatever he wants with his beef cock and takes as many loads he wants.